Well of Sorrows

by Joshua Palmatier

  In the distance, where darkness had already fallen far out over the plains, a flash of purple lightning lit the sky.

  “You summoned the Thousand Springs Clan?” The shaman’s voice was deep and guttural, the Alvritshai words thick with accent, almost incomprehensible. But he did speak Alvritshai.

  Aeren nodded his head formally, in the manner of a lord addressing a fellow member of the Evant. “I requested a meeting with Clan Chief Garius, yes.”

  The shaman’s eyes narrowed, and the Rider tensed. “You summon the clan chief, you summon the clan.” Both Dharel and Auvant stiffened at his tone of affront.

  Aeren hesitated, then nodded again, more carefully, keeping his head down as he spoke. “I intended no insult to the clan.”

  The shaman grunted and considered Aeren a long moment; then he turned and gave the Rider a short barked command in dwarren. The Rider frowned, but the shaman had already stepped away and now regarded the occasional flicker of purplish-blue lightning on the horizon as he stumped down the hill, using the spear as a walking stick. The beads rattled against the haft as he moved, and he called back over his shoulder, “Come! Clan Chief Garius awaits!”

  The Rider gave them all an unhappy look, then followed the shaman, not waiting for the Alvritshai.

  They entered the dwarren camp, passed the sentries, and headed straight for the tent erected earlier. Numerous other tents surrounded it now, smaller, not as complex in construction or as varied in color. Practical tents, made for quick setup and dismantling, but sturdy nonetheless. Even in the deepening darkness, Eraeth could see that. The entire camp itself was practical: central fires, placed so they wouldn’t interfere with the sentries’ night vision, the tents arranged in circles around key locations. Dwarren sat around the fires, eating, drinking, telling stories and laughing. A few were throwing what looked like small bones in some type of intense game, and he counted at least three dwarren men stitching cloth with needle and thread. A dozen Riders in all, which left nearly another dozen on sentry duty, scouting, or watching over the gaezels. He saw no dwarren women, which didn’t surprise him. He’d never seen any dwarren women aboveground.

  None of the Riders in the camp seemed concerned about the Alvritshai; Eraeth’s skin prickled at the slight.

  The shaman halted at the edge of the tent to allow them to catch up. Eraeth didn’t see an opening and frowned as the shaman removed a rattle—made from the tail of one of the deadly brown plain snakes—shook it once up, down, left, and right, connecting the four imaginary points with a wide circle, then bowed deeply at the waist, arm extended, and said, “Ilacqua and the People of the Thousand Springs welcome you to the meeting hall of Clan Chief Garius. May you drink long from the Sacred Waters and may you find whatever it is that you seek.”

  He stayed bent over, as if waiting, and Aeren shot Eraeth a troubled look. No one moved.

  The shaman shook the rattle in irritation, without looking up, and Eraeth realized he was pointing with it.

  He glanced to the side, and saw that if they followed the sheet of blue-green cloth, it would spiral them into the interior of the tent.

  He touched Aeren’s shoulder, motioned to the right, and saw Aeren’s uncertainty fade. His lord stepped forward and entered the curve of the tent’s arm, Eraeth a pace behind, the other two Alvritshai Phalanx following. They came up against a flap of green cloth. Aeren pushed it aside gently and ducked down to enter.

  The first thing that struck Eraeth, as the smooth green cloth slid off his back and he stood, was the smoke. It hung in a pungent cloud, sickly sweet—not unpleasant but strong, invading his nostrils and overpowering almost every other sense. He stifled a cough, heard either Dharel or Auvant choke on it. He found if he relaxed and breathed in deeply, he could breathe normally. Eyes watering slightly, he glared around the small chamber and noticed the metalworked braziers that emitted the smoke at four locations around the circular room, set on low tables made of finely worked wood. Another low, round table sat in the center, surrounded by numerous pillows. A wide, shallow bowl full of fruit sat in the middle of the table, and directly above it, near the apex of the tent, hung a fifth brazier.

  Garius sat on the opposite side of the table, near one of three other entrances to the chamber. Another dwarren sat next to him. The clan chief was younger than the shaman and sat cross-legged, his arms crossed over his chest so that the two gold bands on his upper arms were visible in the braziers’ soft light; but like the shaman he wore lighter, more comfortable armor, although with fewer symbols scorched into it.

  Garius gave them a moment to adjust, then motioned to the pillows scattered around the table. “Sit.”

  Like the shaman, his voice was deep, but smoother, his Alvritshai more fluid.

  Aeren sat down opposite Garius, so Eraeth sat opposite the other dwarren. He motioned for Dharel and Auvant to remain standing, backs to the sides of the tent. It gave them a slight advantage if the meeting turned ugly. He could feel the tension in the air, from Garius, but more from his companion. The younger dwarren sat stiffly, his darker eyes glaring at the Alvritshai with undisguised hatred. Letting his gaze flicker back and forth between the two, Eraeth realized that the younger dwarren must be Garius’ son. He could see the resemblance in the rounded face, the hair, but particularly around the eyes. Garius’ were brown, his son’s darker, but the bone structure was the same.

  “You wished to speak to the clan?” Garius rumbled. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Aeren drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Eraeth thought his lord would be direct, as he’d been with King Stephan. But instead, Aeren asked, “How many of your clan have died this past year? How many in the past five years? The past ten?”

  Garius shifted where he sat, the creases in his face deepening as he frowned. He hadn’t expected the questions, had expected something else entirely. “Too many,” he finally answered.

  “Too many of the Alvritshai have been lost as well. And for what? The plains?”

  Garius’ chin came up. “For our home!” he exclaimed. “You are the ones invading our lands! You and the humans, sending out raiding parties, crossing our borders with your wagon trains, with your Phalanx, stealing our water and our herds, killing the members of the clan when we try to defend ourselves. You are the ones killing us. We were here before you. We have always been here. We are simply protecting what is ours!”

  Aeren let him speak, didn’t flinch at the words, didn’t react when Garius’ son bristled, hands falling to his thighs, although not touching the hilts of the two knives sheathed at his waist. He let Garius finish, gave him a moment to catch his breath, then he nodded in agreement. “You’re right.”

  Both Garius and his son looked stunned, and Aeren took advantage of the pause.

  “We crossed your borders with our parties, with our Phalanx, and we raided your herds and drank of your water. And we’ve killed each other, over and over again, for nearly a hundred years. And I came to ask you a simple question: why?”

  Garius frowned.

  “Do you know why we crossed your borders, why we came to your plains? Because we had to. The Alvritshai have lived in the northern reaches for generations, in the Hauttaeren Mountains, underground, like you. There and in the surrounding hills and forests. We would have stayed there, except for the ice.”

  “Ice?” Garius murmured.

  Eraeth shifted uneasily, tried to lock gazes with Aeren, to warn him to be careful, not to reveal too much about the Alvritshai. But Aeren was focused completely on Garius.

  “Yes, the ice. The region to the north of the Hauttaeren was once arable land, even though the growing season was short. The Alvritshai farmed there and to the south of the mountains. We worked the land, built cities there. The winters were always harsh, but we could retreat into the halls of the Hauttaeren for the worst months and return after the thaws.

  “But in the last two hundred years, the winters have worsened. The growing season in the north has vanished c
ompletely, the ground now covered with snow and ice the entire year. It happened slowly, the ground free for six months, then four, then two. Now it is locked solid. We were forced to retreat to the Hauttaeren permanently, abandoning the cities to the north. But the halls couldn’t contain us all, and the forests to the south couldn’t produce enough to support all of us. So we headed south, onto the plains.”

  “Onto our lands,” Garius’ son growled. His father shot him a black look. He spoke Alvritshai, but not as smoothly as his father, the words clipped and broken.

  “Onto your lands, yes,” Aeren said, unruffled by the boy’s outburst. “We didn’t know that at the time, of course. You live underground. There is little evidence of your existence aboveground, especially here, in the northern reaches of the plains. We didn’t know. And by the time we found out, we were already desperate. We needed the land, needed those crops. If we couldn’t harvest them, we would starve. So when your Riders first appeared, we thought they’d come to steal from us, to take what was ours, and so we fought back.” Aeren’s voice had hardened. “No one stopped to ask whether we had encroached on your lands. No one stopped to talk. I’m not certain it would have mattered then if we had, since we didn’t speak a common language, and because the situation for us was so dire. But we know about each other now, know of each other, know a little of each other’s culture. It’s time to stop.” Aeren sucked in a breath and repeated in the dwarren tongue, leaning slightly forward, “It’s time to stop and talk.”

  Garius didn’t move, although his eyes widened slightly as Aeren spoke the thick, guttural dwarren. Eraeth could barely follow it, even though Aeren had forced him to learn it, along with Andovan. Unlike the humans, who seemed more than willing to talk in any given situation, even when words were useless, the dwarren weren’t as open or forthcoming, so the Alvritshai’s grasp of the language was tenuous. But they knew some, and that fact clearly surprised the clan chief and his son.

  Garius sighed unexpectedly, shoulders slumping, his arms dropping from their defiant position across his chest. He glanced toward his son, mouth pressed tight as he saw the fixed angry expression there, then bowed his head, eyes closed.

  Eraeth swore silently to himself as the clan chief lifted his head, let his hand fall close to the hilt of his cattan.

  “The Lands . . . the plains . . . are sacred to us. They are a gift of the gods, given to the dwarren to protect, to preserve. We believe the clans were created and left here to guard them and everything that they contain—the sky above, the grass, the earth below, the forests, and the waters that feed them all, the waters that give them life, that give us life. And we have guarded these Lands, protected them, for generation upon generation.”

  “How?” Eraeth asked, his voice taut. He saw Aeren tense, but continued. “How have you protected the grassland, when all that the Alvritshai have seen since we came here are the clans warring with each other?”

  Garius’ eyes flared with anger. “The clans do not always agree on how the gods intended the Lands to be protected, and so we war. We have seen the same conflicts among the humans and among the Alvritshai. But that is not the point.”

  He turned back to Aeren, the anger seeping into his voice, darkening it. “When the Alvritshai came to the Lands, they did not seek out the People and ask for the use of the Lands. They did not honor the gods and their great gift. You did not honor the gods. Instead, you defiled the Lands, built houses and towns and cities upon its earth, plowed its fields and sowed it with grain, all without the gods’ blessing, without the permission of the dwarren left to preserve it.” His breath heaved with indignation, with suppressed fury, but with effort he managed to control himself. “That is why the dwarren have fought against you, why we continue to fight. Your presence here—on this grass, on this earth—is a desecration of the Lands.”

  Eraeth drew breath to protest, his own anger rising—at the arrogance of the dwarren, at their self-importance—but Aeren laid a hand on his shoulder to quiet him.

  “Does our situation mean nothing to you then? Thousands of Alvritshai would have perished in the winters that followed our abandonment of the northern reaches. Do your gods have no mercy? No patience for the ignorant?”

  A troubled look passed over Garius’ angry face, but his son spat something in dwarren, spoken so fast that Eraeth could not catch it, although it was obviously derogatory.

  “Hush, Shea, you do not know of what you speak. You are not yet a member of the Gathering, and you are not a shaman. Do not presume to know our will, or the gods.” The words were soft, but the reprimand behind them bit. Shea flinched and bowed his head in angry discontent.

  Garius considered Aeren with an intent frown, the smoke from the braziers drifting in heavy tendrils between them. No one moved, and Eraeth felt sweat break out against his skin. The tent had grown hot.

  Garius finally spoke.

  “Ilacqua is merciful, especially to the ignorant . . . and the foolhardy.” This last was directed toward Shea, whose head dipped slightly lower. “I cannot say what he or any of the other gods would say regarding what you have revealed. I am not a shaman and would never presume to know the gods’ will. But I am a member of the Gathering, and we have noticed that winter comes earlier every year, that occasionally there is snow on the plains where there was never snow before.” He lifted his chin. “What would you have me say to the Gathering?”

  Aeren’s hand fell away from Eraeth’s shoulder. “Tell them what I have said here, about why the Alvritshai are on the plains and why we have fought so hard to retain what we have taken. Tell them that we were ignorant of your ways. And tell them . . . tell them that if there is a chance for peace between us, the Alvritshai are willing to ask the dwarren for permission to use the Lands, that we will vow to protect them as the dwarren would.”

  Garius stirred, his eyes going wide. Even Shea’s head rose. “The Alvritshai would be willing to do this?”

  Aeren hesitated, then nodded. “If it will mean peace between us, then yes. I will convince the Tamaell—our chief—that it is necessary for the skirmishes to end.”

  Eraeth turned to look at his lord. Aeren had said it as if it would be simple, as if he could simply walk into the halls of the Evant and ask.

  Garius’ entire posture changed. The doubt that had tightened his shoulders and back, that lined his face, eased.

  “If this is true, if your chief, this Tamaell, would vow to protect the Lands as the gods demand . . .” He glanced toward Shea, then back toward Aeren. “I cannot say what the Gathering will say, but know this, Lord Aeren of the Alvritshai. I wish my son to grow old, spawn many children, and die on these Lands without the threat of war, no matter that he desires only to prove himself on the battlefield so that his blood may feed the grasses.” A look of scandalized horror crossed Shea’s face, but his father ignored him completely, leaning forward through the haze of smoke. “I have lost many in these battles—friends and family alike, and sons. I’d guess that you have lost as many, if not more. This war is wicked, destroying the plains. The gods are not happy. The shamans know this; that is why the storms have grown worse, and the air itself shimmers and cracks. They are omens.”

  The occumaen, Eraeth thought. He’s speaking of the occumaen. And the unnatural lightning.

  Garuis sat back, considering Aeren, one hand stroking his beard, tangling in the beads braided there. It was the first relaxed gesture Eraeth had seen the chieftain use since they’d arrived.

  He grunted, as if reaching a decision. “I will call a Gathering. I will speak to the other chieftains, to the People of the Lands. If they agree, I will bring them to this flat in one month. This I swear, in blood, before the gods’ eyes.” He pulled a thin knife, all of the Phalanx tensing. But it wasn’t a fighting knife. He placed the short flattened blade against the soft outer pad of his palm and made a small knick, enough to draw blood. With the thumb of the hand holding the knife, he smeared the blood across his palm, spat on it, and held it out to Aeren.


  Eraeth saw Aeren still. He could sense the distaste in his lord, but Aeren reached forward and clasped Garius’ hand tightly.

  Garius’ grip tightened for a moment, not allowing Aeren to withdraw, and he caught the lord’s eyes. “If your chief would have peace between us, he will be here.”

  He released his grip, leaning back, his arms crossed over his chest again. “Now go.”

  Eraeth rose with Aeren, the lord bowing toward the chief of the People of the Thousand Springs. A formal bow, one that would be given to another Lord of the Evant. Then they left, passing back through the entrance, around the curved arm of the tent and out into the night.

  Darkness shrouded the entire camp, broken by the fires and the stars above. As he came out into the cool night air, Eraeth stumbled, a wave of dizziness sweeping over him, brought on by the heat of the tent and the dense smoke. He gasped, sucked in a cleansing breath, the cold shocking his lungs, heard the others doing the same.

  The shaman stood to one side, watching them through narrowed eyes. But when the storm they had seen upon entering the tent flared to the east—closer now, enough that they could hear an answering rumble of thunder—he turned back to study it. The rest of the dwarren ignored them completely.

  “That was . . . interesting,” Aeren said as they began to move through the circles of tents back to their own camp.

  Eraeth didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. “I did not like his son, Shea.”

  Aeren shrugged. “He is young. He does not trust us, and he has yet to learn how to be . . . diplomatic. You and he are much alike.”

  Eraeth snorted. “I am not young.”

  Aeren smiled. “No, you are not. And for that you are forgiven much.” They passed through the dwarren sentries and walked up the hillock in silence, turning near the top, where Eraeth gave the sentry on duty there a nod that all was well. The Phalanx guardsman relaxed.